


Impersonation

by LadySilver



Series: Something Called Forever [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Clan Denial, Future Fic, Gen, References to "Chivalry", Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9498290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: For some reason, Methos wanted to spend the day hanging out with Richie at the mall. He held the car keys, a lot of questions, and a barely concealed motive.Richie couldn't believehe'sthe one who's too old for this crap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was started a year ago and is _finally_ able to be shared. Thanks immensely to 0positiv, who cheerlead the first draft, tptigger, who tore it apart, and idelthoughts who guided the process of putting it back together.
> 
> After several rounds of edits, the escalator is gone. Gone!
> 
> The mall depicted in this story is fictional and is located in a fictional town that also contains a fictional college. It's easier that way.
> 
> This story is #4 in the Something Called Forever series. It is not a crossover, though it does contain references to the other stories. Should you be interested in reading this one as a standalone, here's what you need to know:
> 
> In 2015, Richie Ryan (who never died!) relocated to New York City. Shortly after arriving, the building in which his apartment and martial arts studio were located were blown up and he meets and befriends Medical Examiner Henry Morgan and Immortal priest Liam Riley. ("Something Called Living")
> 
> About two months ago, Methos showed up at his door one day and announced that he was moving in now, thank you. (Unpublished story #3).
> 
> The events of "Something Called Justice" don't factor into this story.
> 
> "Something Called Honor" won't start for another month of story time.

On the one hand, Immortality had given Richie the ability to pursue much more interesting goals than he'd had as an orphan brat getting shuttled from foster home to foster home. He'd lived in Europe, been able to try his hand at being a professional bike racer, and run his own businesses.

On the other, it meant that, in the system or not, he was stuck, forever, moving from home to home and life to life. While the clean slate of starting over had its advantages, always erasing everything— _replacing_ everything—meant that all that extra time was largely spent catching up.

When he'd woken up that morning, sweaty, sheets kicked off the bed, all Richie had known was that he couldn't put off buying summer clothes any longer; he'd had no idea that Methos was making his own plans.

He peeled himself out of bed, plucking at the gym shorts and undershirt he'd taken to sleeping in when he acquired a roommate. They stuck to his body like paste, an uncomfortable reminder that they were the coolest clothes he owned and that the apartment had no air conditioning. Padding to the center of the room, he managed a few desultory stretches before quitting in a moment of sudden hopelessness, his hands still pressed to the thin carpet. This was what he had to look forward to for the next few months until the cooler weather came back. 

True, he'd chosen to move to this city, to live in this apartment. Not like he had a lot of options. Since leaving Seacouver, he'd zig-zagged across the States, putting in a few years here, a few years there. Turned out that the kinds of places he wanted to live didn't have much to offer him or were filled with the kinds of people who paid very close attention to new people. So, he'd come to New York City. More opportunity, more chance he could stay for awhile before anyone caught on to his lack of aging, and weather that generally sucked. He knew he should take his lumps now and do his best to save his pennies. With a potentially long future, and no hopes at ever being able to touch a pension plan, that was all he could do if he wanted to keep a life of crime in his past.

Buckling down and working hard was what he should do, yet he didn't feel like either his pennies or his prospects were accumulating.

Some days, like this one, he just really wished he had the kind of wealth all the other Immortals he knew seemed to have. Granted, most of them had had centuries to acquire that wealth. Because of it, Mac traveled all over the world on a whim. Amanda—well, she wasn't a good example, since 'life of crime' was her goal. Ceirdwyn had homes in at least three countries, probably more. And Methos—

—had had millennia, and had ended up right next to Richie.

Straightening up, Richie headed for the bathroom while once again finding his thoughts occupied with a question that had been nagging at him for weeks now: Why had Methos insisted on moving in with him? He understood the “I need a place to lay low” excuse that Methos had given when he'd first arrived, especially since Richie had used the same reason only a few months before when he'd had to crash with Liam after his apartment blew up. Only Methos hadn't left, and it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn't planning on leaving, despite there being no earthly reason Richie could see that the man had to put up with the cramped rooms, the ever-present smell of mold, and the lack of functioning climate control when he could undoubtedly afford some place better. _Any_ place better.

With anyone else, the easiest way to get an answer was to ask. In Richie's, albeit limited, experience, Methos might supply an answer, but he wouldn't necessarily supply the _right_ answer—until he was good and ready, that was.

Then again, maybe he didn't have a reason. Maybe being 5000 years old, Methos had aged out of any desire to have reasons. It wasn't like he had anyone he needed to answer to.

Right now, in fact, he was standing in the kitchen, eating. He'd found the leftover fried chicken breast that Richie had been saving for his lunch, and was taking it apart, one thin strip of meat at a time, that he then popped into his mouth. His brown hair was still sleep-tousled and he had a red mark along one cheek from a crease in his pillow—funny how those kinds of marks didn't disappear any faster on Immortals—and his gaze was fixed some place far, far away. He showed no awareness of either his breakfast or Richie's interruption thereof.

Thank god he was wearing boxers, at least. From the sheen of sweat on Methos' skin, Richie suspected that he was lucky to not have found his roommate standing around naked. Still, he expected Methos to have better roommate etiquette than this. Unless he'd aged past the need to care about that, too.

"Hey!" Richie interrupted. “You mind? I was saving that." His stomach rumbled, though he wasn't usually hungry when he first woke up. That took awhile to kick in and then, thanks to his forever-teenage hormones, didn't shut off again until he went to bed: One of the many perks of being in a body that thought it was still growing. He pushed past Methos and grabbed the last granola bar from the box on the counter. It would hold him over for now.

From a distance, Methos answered, "I'll buy you lunch."

Richie managed to get the first bite swallowed without choking. "You will?" That was…not the response he expected. Methos was more of a try-to-stop-me kind of guy rather than a let-me-make-it-up-to-you kind. The offer was tempting, but there had to a be a catch.

Slowly, Methos returned from wherever his attention had gone and he nodded. "While we're out," he stated. "We need to go shopping." He peeled another strip of meat off the breast and ate it. Grease stained his fingers.

Richie's tilt toward forgiveness flattened under the weight of suspicion. "We?" he repeated. He'd planned to get his run in, maybe a little workout, then shower and head out on his bike to see what kinds of clothing stores were around. He still had enough of the settlement from the insurance left to cover all the basics. Get it all done at once and he didn't have to worry about clothes again until the fall. But, he'd assumed he'd be going alone. Though Methos had moved in, he'd made no further effort to participate in Richie's life. Mostly, Methos had kept to himself, spending a lot of time on his laptop doing…whatever he thought was important. Which was fine with Richie, except that he still didn't know why Methos had to do it _here_.

"It's a good day for it," Methos responded. "The dojo is closed, the refrigerator is distressingly empty, and we could both use a change of scenery."

Sweat trickled down Richie's back from the heat and he shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose it would be more efficient to split the errands. You can hit the grocery store and I'll try to track down a Target or something. Wanna say one for lunch?" He eyed the now half-gone granola bar, then the remains of the chicken breast. "We should probably talk about the whole roommate thing, too. Figure out a chores list, lay down some ground rules…"

Methos licked his fingers clean while staring Richie into silence. "I thought we'd go to the mall. There's one up the road I've been wanting to check out. We'll make a day of it."

"The…mall?" Richie's eyebrows shot up, then pulled back down into a scowl at the thought. Not only were the stores more expensive than he wanted, but malls tended to be packed full of teenagers—and he'd made a point of avoiding spaces teens hung out in since he'd stopped being one. Chronologically, anyway. "I don't think so.

"I've already hired the car. It should be here within the hour." Methos finished cleaning his fingers and dropped the remainder of the breast into the garbage, then pulled a small stack of paper off the top of the fridge and thrust it at Richie. "Look through these and see if there's anything you can use. No sense in spending money you don't have to. I'll go grab the first shower." He took a step and stopped, as if waiting for Richie's reaction. Like he cared about Richie's reaction?

"These're coupons." Richie flipped through the papers. "You've been cutting coupons."

"Printing them, to be precise."

For a second, Richie squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn't possibly be the real world. Methos was a complex guy—he'd proven that over and over—yet the realization that he'd been spending all that time hunching over his laptop _couponing_ was almost more than Richie could handle. It was so incredibly mundane…and thoughtful. The coupons would be useful. Though he'd flipped through them quickly, he'd seen a couple of 50% of coupons that would more than make up for a stolen chicken breast and the mall prices, though there was no need to go 'up the road' to use them.

"These are great," he said, sounding a lot more pleased about them than he meant to. "I'll just go downtown, run in and out of a few stores, grab a few short-sleeved shirts, some shorts. It'll be a couple hours. Tops.” Richie glanced down at the sheaf of store coupons clutched in his hands. The paper was already wilting from the humidity and April had barely started. He was going to need a lot more than a few shirts and shorts to get him through the next months. “Maybe three hours. Definitely not the whole day. And you do _not_ have to come with me.”

“The mall is only a short drive—”

“No,” Richie answered stubbornly. MacLeod would be so proud if he could see his protege now and the facility with which he lived up to his teacher's bullheadedness. “Shopping for clothes is bad enough without needing to make a production out of it.”

"Then I suggest you don't," Methos countered. "The car will be here in less than an hour." Having now said his piece, and proving that he didn't care about Richie's opinion, he headed for the bathroom.

Stunned, Richie could only watch him go. Once he'd been good at telling people what he was going to do and then doing it, regardless of what objections they raised. Yet Methos had completely steamrolled him. If Richie couldn't win on the topic of shopping, what chance did he have on any more important one? Dropping the coupons on the table, he went to start a list of what he needed to buy. Replace everything he'd lost first and then, maybe, he could work on doing some of the more interesting things.

* * *

As expected, the actual shopping didn't take very long; Richie's tastes were pretty simple: some button down shirts, a lot of t-shirts, a couple pairs of shorts for when it was too hot for more, and a few pairs of jeans for when he wanted to go riding. It felt decadent, even wasteful, to be buying new, and from a mall store. On the other hand, he didn't have to pay for lunch—which turned out to be less a benefit than he'd expected when Methos led him to the food court.

The mall was mobbed with other people also seeking relief from the heat, putting extra pressure on the air conditioning to keep up. Richie and Methos managed to find a small table among all the occupied ones and were now finishing lunch while ignoring the other shoppers who hovered around them, waiting to swoop in when they got up.

"OK, the car was a good idea," Richie reluctantly conceded as he toed one bag that was packed full of shirts. "I couldn't have carried everything I need back on the bike. Plus—" He lowered his voice—"it's lucky we had some place to leave the swords."

"Metal detectors," Methos agreed, condemning the devices with his utterance. Neither of them had anticipated that level of security on the mall; they'd only spotted the detectors at the mall's entrances while circling through the parking garage and had shared a moment of horror at the realization of what could have been.

"But I still don't get why you had to drag me all the way out to…" Richie squinted at the city's name as printed on the receipt for his lunch; he wasn't convinced that that particular combination of letters could be pronounced. "...here. The drive back is going to blow my entire afternoon."

Methos looked at him levelly. "I'm sorry, did you have plans?" The touch of snideness in his tone took Richie aback. Slowly, Methos began gathering the garbage from their lunch and stacking it on the tray.

"Well, no," Richie admitted. "Nothing specific, anyway. I mean, I'm getting a couple boxes of uniforms in this afternoon that I should go through and now I have all these new clothes to put away...what?"

"It's Friday night. Why don't you go out, do something fun? I can cover your morning classes."

Richie blinked. There was a catch to the offer; there was always a catch to Methos' offers, and Richie wasn't that naive boy anymore who would fall for them. He pushed his chair back. "Yeah, thanks, but no. My classes, my responsibility. You ready to go?"

Methos shrugged, as if the offer meant nothing to him, as if leaving the mall hadn't occurred to him. "Then invite some friends over. There's no need to keep me hidden. I promise to behave. I won't even raise a fuss when you send them home at a reasonable hour."

There was the snideness again, the hint of accusation. What the hell?

Richie leaned in, fists balling. "Look, when you showed up out of the blue and announced that you were going to be my teacher now, I thought you were going to, you know, _teach_ me something. Instead, you've done nothing except sit around on my couch, eating my food and filching my wi-fi. Now, all of a sudden, you're criticizing my social life." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "If my choices bother you so much, you know where the door is."

For a long moment, Methos gazed around the space, clearly gathering his thoughts. At the table next to them, a pair of tweenage girls took turns dipping their french fries into their chocolate milk and feeding them to each other, giggling with each bite. They looked so happy. Richie felt his own pulse beat in his jaw as he waited. Methos was the last guy he wanted to turn into an enemy, yet that didn't mean Richie had to let himself be pushed around.

At last, Methos' eyes dropped closed, his lips pressing together. "When you start a new class, do you assume the participants are blank slates, or do you try to find out what they already know so you can build on it?" He grabbed an errant fry off the tray and nibbled it, then tossed it back with a shudder. "Stone cold and soggy; terrible combination."

"A little of both," Richie answered reflexively, frowning at the apparent topic change. Most of his kids were so young that what little they did know was wrong, usually because they'd picked it up from movies or TV and had no way to understand the difference between cool and effective. Mostly what he did with them was drill basics until they forgot the fantasy. "Why?" Methos finally stood up to dispose of the tray and its barely-balanced contents and Richie followed, not willing to let Methos get away without finishing the thought. 

He had to scramble back to the table to retrieve his nearly-forgotten purchases. An older man with gray-streaked hair and a woman at least twenty years his junior, who Richie sincerely hoped was his daughter, had already taken the vacated seats. Richie flashed them an apologetic smile and got out of their way as fast as he could.

Methos was well down the concourse by the time Richie caught up with him, the answer to his own question popping into his head.

"Oh! I get it. You've been assessing me, figuring out what you think I need to learn."

"Bright boy."

"But, I don't get it, we haven't sparred or anything. I've learned a lot over the last few years and I’ve already proven I can hold my own in a fight. Hell, this is practically our first _conversation_ with any substance. What could you've possibly been trying to find out that you didn't already know? My life isn't exactly all that interesting. Besides, I don't get why you suddenly care about me or my life anyway. How is what I get up to any of your business?"

Methos nodded slowly, looking for a moment like he was about to comment on that. When he opened his mouth, what came out was instead, "How about a coffee?"

"What?" Richie spun, briefly walking backward through the crowded concourse, trying to figure out if he'd heard correctly. He drew a deep breath of the mall air, half expecting to catch a whiff of coffee for himself like a subliminal message. Yet the air was so dry and sanitized that it carried not so much as a hint of any cookie vendors or chocolatiers that dotted the concourse in case shoppers needed a reinforcing snack between one store and the next. 

"Coffee. Beverage. Often served hot," Methos elaborated. "Careful, there's a pram behind you."

Richie swung back back around in time to avoid the young mother who was pushing a twin-stroller down the middle of the aisle with an expression of fierce concentration on her face. 

"Yeah, but we just ate."

"Can you think of a better time? Come on." Methos scanned the mall, taking in the levels and concourses that made it one of the biggest of its kind in the country. "There should be a kiosk or a cafe around here somewhere. Did you see one on our way to lunch?" He scowled briefly at the universal mystery of how to find things when you wanted them, then pointed down a branch they hadn't explored. "Let's go this way." 

It was the most determined Richie had seen Methos since their discussion that morning. In fact, while Methos had followed Richie through the early shopping, he'd acted more like a shadow than a companion. Mostly all he'd done was flip through the offerings on the racks and spend enough time studying the mannequins—so many of which were headless that Richie had briefly wondered if he'd stumbled into some bizarre fetish of the old man's.

The new mission revitalized Methos, lengthening his stride. Richie scrambled to keep up. "Hey," he protested, "you wanna help out here?" Like it or not, he needed to stick with Methos, seeing as how Methos had the car keys.

Surprisingly, Methos slowed down, though it might have only been because the shoppers meandering along the concourse served as constantly changing and unpredictably placed obstacles. 

They skirted the roped-off atrium where a stage and walkway were being erected for the fashion show that several of the anchor stores were hosting to showcase their new lines, and paused for a few minutes to watch the proceedings. Black clad crew members moved around within, unrolling spools of cables, laying out the runner on the stage, testing the sound setup. It was busy enough to make even Richie curious about what the show would entail—Not that the prospect of watching hot women strut their stuff wasn't enticing enough.

"So what is it?" Methos asked, interrupting Richie's new train of thought. He drummed his fingers on the top of one of the barrier stanchions.

“What is what?”

“The reason why you don't go out.”

“I told you: I'm not in the mood.” That wasn't precisely what he'd said, but that's really what it boiled down to, wasn't it?

“I don't mean tonight. I mean at all. I've seen you work. I've seen you train. I've seen you play a truly astounding amount of video games. I've never seen you go out.”

“I go out!” Richie protested. “I was out last night.”

“You were at the church with Liam. Unless you're helping him violate his vows, hanging out with a priest is not what I'm talking about.”

Richie couldn't stop his lips from curling in disgust at Methos' suggestion.

“I didn't think so,” Methos said, correctly reading the expression. “And your friend Henry?”

Were they really going to do this? “Henry has a girlfriend,” Richie said slowly. Even if he was interested in Henry that way, which he wasn't, there'd be no separating Henry and Jo.

Methos raised an eyebrow in a clear “So?”

“No,” Richie answered. A downward slash with his hand cut off the suggestion. “We're friends. Also, I think he's way too old fashioned for that kind of thing.” He tried to imagine Henry participating in a threesome with anyone, and found that his brain bounced hard off the idea. Yeah, he'd been wrong about the guy before, but Henry struck him as strictly monogamous. The assessment was no sooner out of his mouth than he saw Methos opening his to object. “You know what I mean. He's just...not the kind who'd be into that. You know?” It wasn't his most eloquent moment, and his cheeks warmed in uncharacteristic embarrassment.

“Right,” Methos agreed. “So both the friends you've managed to make here are 'not that kind of friend.' When was the last time you had sex?”

The bluntness of the question stunned Richie. His hands tightened around his bags and for a long moment all he could do was gape at the old man. “How is that your business?” he finally managed. He seemed to be stuck on that question.

Methos shrugged. “Relationships are healthy and normal, even for our kind. _Especially_ for our kind. It's easy to get disconnected from the world, and new relationships help keep that from happening. And you haven't had a relationship since...” He trailed off, and Richie had to fight to hold back the answer that wanted to spring into the silence.

“Still not your business, and I thought we were looking for coffee? Speaking of which…." 

On the far side of the atrium, Richie had caught a glimpse of a familiar logo. This time he pulled Methos back into the fray, only distantly noting that Methos seemed reluctant to leave.

The security for the fashion show had blocked off the entire atrium, as well as parts of the main concourses that lead to it, meaning that getting from the one side to the other involved a detour down one wing, cutting across a side corridor, and coming back up on the other wing. It was a lot more work than any fricking coffee would ever be worth.

And it was only made more complicated by the number of other kiosks that peppered their path offering services and goods from cellphone repair, to hand-woven plastic lamp shades, to hair braiding, to themed keychains. As they passed each, Methos dallied for a few moments before continuing on, as if constantly suddenly recalling where he was meant to be going.

At a booth with a caricature artist, a trio sat getting their picture drawn: two guys— mid-twenties, tailored suits, and bushy beards that contrasted sharply with those suits—and a woman—also mid-twenties and decked out in a bright red skirt suit—all standing with their arms crossed like they were waiting for their WWE introductions. Methos tilted his head as he went by and reached up to rub his chin. The woman noticed, then shifted her gaze to Richie, smiled, and, deliberately, licked her lips. Richie tore his eyes away before he could feel more like a sleaze for getting caught checking her out.

Methos crossed his arms, his posture shifting so he was walking with more of a strut than a stroll. Richie shook his head; if he tried to walk like that here, he’d only draw all the security guards’ attention—and that was a kind of scrutiny he didn’t want. 

“This isn't about Kristin, is it?" Methos dropped the question into their happy silence. 

“What?”

“The reason why you haven’t brought any women back to the apartment. Is it because of what happened with Kristin? Because I can guarantee that there are plenty of women out there who are more worthwhile and less—”

“Psychopathic?” Richie finished, looking Methos straight on as he said it. They both knew it was the word Methos wanted. “No, why are suddenly thinking about her?” Kristin had been twenty years before, Richie's first fling with both an older woman and an _older_ woman, as she'd had roughly six hundred years on him.

“Good, because I'm not going to apologize for killing—” Methos caught one of the other pairs of people walking next to them paying too much attention to them, and lowered his voice as he adjusted his sentence— “your relationship.”

Kristin had also been Richie's first experience with how fraught histories could get between people who had centuries to wrong each other. And he'd thought the grudge that Joey'd had against him in high school when he'd gone out with Donna during one of the couple's infamous breakups had been bad. 

Then he'd gotten involved with Kristin, an Immortal woman who had previously been involved with his teacher, who'd then tried to kill both Richie and his former foster sister, Maria. Methos had ended up saving Maria and killing Kristin, as casual about one as about the other. It had taken Richie a long time to come to terms with how routinely, even _normally_ Immortals beheaded each others' friends and lovers. It was just part of the Game, and the Game was their lives.

"Good," Richie echoed, more forcefully, "because I wasn't going to ask you to. Kristin is old news." 

He again found his thoughts drawn to Maria. Once Richie’d shared her home, shared her family, and knew all her secrets, and yet he’d been helpless when she needed him the most. Like all his old friends, he’d had to cut ties with her when he left his first life behind. Unlike the others, he’d been able to watch from afar as her modeling career blossomed. Methos’ intervention had allowed that.

Like it or not, Richie owed the old man.

Distracted again, he was nearly bowled over by a pair of young women who tumbled out of a store pulling the blasting beat of a drum machine in their wake.

“...it’s just not my usual style...” one of them was protesting, while waving the bag that held the presumably contentious outfit. 

Her friend rolled her eyes and offered a chiding, “It’s a nightclub. Screw your usual—” that cut off when she caught sight of another group of people at the nail salon a few stores down. “Oh my god, there she is. Come on, we have _got_ to go show her what you got.” They took off toward their goal, with no regard for whom they cut off in the process.

That snippet of conversation was the closest Richie had been to uncensored teenagers in years. Hearing them, it was hard to believe that he'd've once seen nothing wrong with that behavior. "Wow. That was rude."

"How old are you?” Methos questioned, as the girls' boots clomped into the distance. 

“Forty-one. Why? Ya know, if this is personal question day, I have a few I'd like to--"

Methos waved a hand, silencing him. “No, I mean currently. What does it say on your driver's license?”

Oh. “Nineteen,” he answered. Back to being the age he was when he'd died the first time. He'd thought about starting the ID at eighteen, but the legal right to sign contracts and own property didn't exempt him from the grief of dealing with landlords and banks who refused to believe that an eighteen year old could be responsible enough. The one year made all the difference. One abstract year on an age statement that meant nothing to him and everything to everyone else.

“Do tell me you have a current ID that says twenty-one? That's the drinking age in this country, right?”

“Yes,” Richie agreed, answering both questions. There was something screwy about the idea that his fake ID had a fake ID. Of course, all his IDs were fake now, and would be for the rest of his life. "Again, why?"

Methos shrugged. "You heard them; there’s a nightclub around here somewhere. When we’re done shopping, we’ll throw all the bags in the car and then go scout it out. Can you think of a better way to meet a lot of people quickly? It’s ideal. And, since this is a college town, no one will wonder why they haven’t seen you around before."

Richie scrubbed a hand down his face as the direction of the questioning became suddenly, painfully obvious. One of the bags slid down his arm and only a quick catch kept it from spilling everywhere. "Did you seriously drag me all the way out here because you're trying to get me laid?” Whatever Methos' answer was, he didn't bother to share it. Par for the course, really. “Geez, man. Believe me when I say I don’t need any help with that." Though, granted, it had been a while. “Why would you think that coming to a mall was necessary?”

"It's all about creating opportunities," Methos commented. "Which, I might add, you've done a bang up job managing to avoid on your own."

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Richie responded, emphasizing the syllables, “I have been busy.” As far as he was concerned, there was nothing further to say on the topic.

Methos’ eyes closed and his nostrils flared with a blown out breath. “The readiest and most perennial of excuses,” he murmured. “And here we are.”

Only when they were nearly upon it did Richie finally smell the dark aroma.

Breathing in, he reveled in the scent that was so different, so much more welcoming, than what the rest of the mall provided. From the way the other patrons in line kept sniffing the air, he guessed that they also appreciated the change. Too bad he'd never grown to appreciate the taste of the stuff.

Methos pulled some money out of his wallet and handed it over. “Coffee. You buy. I'll wait over there with the bags.” He gestured to a bench on which a line of elderly men encamped, each piled with bags and heads nodding in boredom. There was barely enough space on the end of the bench for a small child to squeeze in.

Reluctantly, Richie handed over his bags. While he was happy to not have to carry them, Methos taking custody of them was proof that he was up to something. “OK, I give. You want something. I mean, I can't figure any other reason you'd drag me half way across the state to interrogate me about my sex life. So...what is it? Tell me. Whadda ya want?” 

Methos gave the menu an overview, then pointed at the display for the seasonal special. “One of those. A small will do.”

Yeah, because he'd thought asking directly might work this time. Fine, if Methos wanted to keep dragging the day out, Richie would just have to go along with it. Play along and it might speed things up.

"I never took you for a 'whip cream and sprinkles' kind of guy,” he commented, as he took in the ingredient list. Methos-the-frou-frou guy. Now there was an image. It was almost as bad as Methos-the-couponer.

“No?” Methos' lips turned down in thought. “It is a detail I've never used...” He trailed off contemplatively, and Richie had a sinking feeling, not unlike the night he'd broken into an antique store and discovered that the world was a much more dangerous place than he'd understood. Maybe he'd chosen wrong this time, too. Shifting the bags for better balance, Methos repeated, “A small. Always start small,” then carted the lot off to his designated bench.

Knowing he was going to regret this, Richie stepped into line, the money clenched tight in his grip.


	2. Chapter 2

That he'd charged Richie with getting him a drink made with a combination of flavors that had to have come from a bored marketing executive and a dart board was, in fact, cause for alarm. The only thing Richie had figured out so far was that he was missing something important, and this was part of it.

“You should get him a large,” the person in front of Richie suggested. She turned so she could see him while still holding her place and tossed him a wink that left no doubt that she was talking to him. She was several inches shorter than Richie with a pile of dark-blonde hair swept up in a messy knot on the back on her head and a pair of large-lensed sunglasses perched on the front. “Your boyfriend, I mean. You should get him a large. Show him that risks are worth doing big, if they're worth doing at all.”

“My boy—oh, god, no,” Richie sputtered, the words coming out before he had a chance to assess whether it was worth responding at all. “Roommate. He's just a roommate.”

The girl's grin dimpled her cheeks. “In that case...how about I let you cut in front of me and you can buy me a drink?”

Richie blinked. It wasn't the fastest come-on he'd ever heard, but it had to be the least expected. “Uh.” Stymied for words, he glanced down at the bill crumpled in his hand. “It's not my money.” And that had to be the lamest shoot down ever. What the hell was he doing? The girl was hot. College-aged, wearing a blue t-shirt that proclaimed in bold upside-down letters that "THIS IS MY HANDSTAND SHIRT" and short shorts. Her arms and legs were tanned and muscled, and Richie couldn't help eying them appreciatively. He also couldn't help noticing that she was eying his own arms just as appreciatively.

 _Too young,_ the more rational part of his mind screamed. _She's too young!_.

“Sorry,” he continued. “It's just...I can't ditch my friend, you know?”

She gave a dismissive shrug. “Somehow, I think he'll understand. But, I like a guy who's loyal to his friends. It gives me hope that he won't ditch me when he spots another pretty face.” One dark eyebrow quirked, and Richie's inner white-knight wanted to rear up and declare that he'd never treat any girlfriend of his that way. “My name's Emily. How 'bout I give you my number and you can text me when you're free?”

Richie felt his throat seizing up. Not too long ago, he would have jumped at the chance to do anything this girl wanted to do. If it left him stranded in a strange town without transportation...well, it wouldn't be the first time. But this...the timing was all wrong.

Unless it was exactly right?

Richie's eyes narrowing, he swung toward Methos to see if there any hint of this being a set-up. Methos was standing in front of the bench, speaking earnestly to one of the old men, and not paying any attention at all to what was going on with Richie. Certainly if he had arranged this, he'd want to see how it played out.

"Here I am assuming you're single just because you said you weren't with your friend," Emily continued, already sounding less assured than she had just a moment before. "I shouldn't be making assumptions like that."

“It's OK,” Richie said in a croak that reminded him all too painfully of the year his voice changed. “I am. I'm just not looking to change that right now. I mean, it's not that you're not pretty, because you really are...” He trailed off as his resolve crumbled; it had never been all that strong to begin with. “Richie,” he said. _She's too young,_ his inner voice reminded him. 

_She's no younger than she thinks you are,_ a different part of him chimed in. And there was the summary of his love life: he got to choose between women who were fellow competitors in the Game, or women who were barely old enough to vote. Some choice. Against his better judgment, he pulled out his phone and typed in the number she rattled off. When her phone buzzed, he tried not to feel like he'd accomplished something important.

Fortunately, her turn to order came up then. Then his. For the first time, he regretted that the coffee kiosk didn't sell anything stronger. He settled for a smoothie, the one listed first on the menu that hung behind the baristo's head, and resolutely refused to acknowledge the leer the baristo tried to share with him.

“Try not to look so panicked,” Emily said, when Richie stepped down to join her at the other end of the counter. “I promise not to send more than two or three texts a minute.” Her expression softened; she must have caught on that he was a little freaked out. "Besides, I've found it's usually best to start with one date. It's way too soon to be talking about forever."

Richie gulped, momentarily stunned past the point of any other kind of response. She had to say that, didn't she? Like he needed that reminder.

"Wow." She touched the E-shaped pendant that hung from the thin gold chain around her neck. "Are you OK? You've gone really pale. I don't know what I said…"

“'S'okay,” Richie said, forcing his fists to unclench. She had no way to know what his issues were. “It's just been a long time since...well, it's been a busy year.” Thoughts of the explosion and fire that had destroyed his home and business flashed through his mind. 

“I hear you,” she answered. “I have a competition next weekend and then finals coming up after that. So, shoot me a text when you're ready to take a break and we'll go hang out.” Her drink came up then, and she accepted it with a scowl at the name scrawled on the cup that reversed back into a smile when she once again met Richie's eyes. “It'll be fun. Like I said, no pressure.” With a small wave, she walked off.

No pressure. Right. He knew where this was going. They'd hit a club, have a great time, and then a few months down the road she'd either start asking questions he couldn't answer, or he'd have to construct a reason to break up with her before she did. 

He sighed and was reaching for his own order when the sense of another Immortal slid across his awareness. His head jerked up, and he turned immediately to check back on Methos. Through a break in the traffic, Richie caught sight of the old man. He had managed to evict the other occupants from the bench and was now sprawled exactly in the middle with his arms spread across the back, leaning back with his eyes closed, either doing a very good job of not responding to the Presence, or not in range to feel it. If he hadn't left and reentered range, that meant there was a third Immortal in the mall, one who was...

Richie slowly scanned the area in front of the kiosk, searching for anyone who was likewise searching for him. Crowds of shoppers filled the mall, streaming through the concourses like ants toward a sugar bowl. Many had their eyes on their phones, while others pressed close to their friends to chat. A few scanned the stores they passed with the determination of treasure seekers. No one seemed to be looking for the source of a signal only they could feel.

Abruptly, Richie realized that the second voice was gone. The Immortal must have been on the far side of the kiosk where Richie couldn't see him, and had presumably backed off when he felt Richie. With any luck, that meant no one would be Challenging anyone else today. Could be a little awkward trying to have a fight to the death without swords, and more awkward trying to explain to the rental car agency just how exactly the car had gotten destroyed in a lighting storm while parked inside the parking garage.

“Did you feel that?” Richie asked, after beelining back to the bench. He handed over the coffee, and noted that Methos took it and immediately set it down on the bench next to him without opening his eyes.

“You'll have to be more specific,” Methos responded with a stretch like he'd been on the edge of nodding off.

A quick glance around showed that no one was in immediate earshot. “There's another one of us here.”

Finally, Methos cracked open his eyes. “So?”

The paper of Richie's cup crinkled as his grip tightened around it. “So?!” He drew close enough to loom over the seated Immortal. He rarely had opportunity to be taller than Methos, and getting to be the one looking down on him for once almost made up being put on the spot about his sex life. “Our swords are in the car, and last I checked that wasn't exactly accessible. Also, I've never developed a taste for being hunted.”

Methos gave a tired sigh and shifted over. “Take a seat.” Richie didn't move, so Methos ostentatiously picked up the coffee cup and set it back down again on his other side, clearing the entire bench. “Sit down before someone else does. It wasn't easy getting everyone who was here to leave and I don't want anyone to get the bright idea that they're welcome to come back.”

With a shake of his head, Richie decided that he both didn't want to know or to argue. “Fine.” He lowered himself to the bench. “You're really not worried?”

“He's probably just shopping. I hear that's why people come to the mall.” That observation was clearly a dig at Richie. Methos gestured at the pile of bags he'd shoved under the bench and Richie threw him a snide look in return. “I'm more interested in that young lady you were talking to.”

So Methos hadn't been oblivious; he'd been watching the whole time. It was bad enough that Richie had an actual Watcher, and now he had to put up with a teacher who used to be a Watcher. Knowing him, he'd write everything they said in his private chronicle later. “She hit on me," Richie corrected. "And I don't know why you're acting surprised. D'you put her up to it?"

"Why would I do that?" Methos draped an arm along the back of the bench, then retracted it when Richie didn't immediately agree that the idea of Methos bribing someone was outlandish. "No," he clarified. "There was no need to. In case it's escaped your notice, lots of women have been giving you second glances today. Eventually one of them was going to get a chance to talk to you."

After everything, Richie didn't feel very convinced. The Methos Richie knew had a different relationship with the truth than even most other Immortals did. He crossed his arms and settled in for an argument. “It doesn't matter. I'm not going to text her.”

“Why not?”

The smoothie was some kind of tropical mix and cold. Combined with the rolling murmur of the other shoppers' voices, Richie began to relax, almost despite himself. He stretched out his legs, noting that his white gym shoes didn't need replacing, and tried to affect a dismissiveness he didn't quite feel as he said, “She's not my type.”

Methos rolled his head to look at Richie. “Cute and interested in you? How is that not your type?”

So much for relaxing. “Hey, I have an idea,” he responded, sitting back up. “Why don't we talk about...I don't know... _anything_ else? Like, the other Immortal, or why you suddenly decided that becoming my teacher was the thing to do?”

Methos picked up his cup and turned it around slowly at eye-level as if contemplating the enigma of the brown coffee sleeve against the white cardboard. At last, he found whatever answer he sought and brought the cup to his lips for a careful sip. His face twisted in a grimace. “That's not what I thought it would be,” he commented.

“I could've warned you,” Richie said. His own drink was surprisingly tasty, and while the mall's air conditioning was running full bore, the smoothie's coolness still felt like a relief from the heat he knew was waiting outside. From the world that was waiting outside. “And you're stalling.”

“No,” Methos said. “I'm shopping.”

“Shopping? For what? You haven't bought a single thing.”

“I paid for the car.”

Richie raised an eyebrow; that wasn't what he meant.

Methos leaned back again and pointed his face in the direction of the skylight overhead. Its translucent glow added nothing to the electric luminescence that surrounded it, yet nearly everyone who passed near it faltered in their step at least once while glancing up. “There is a great deal more to do in a mall than just buy things.”

 _Like pick up girls?_ Richie quashed the question before he asked it, unwilling to reopen a topic he'd barely managed to close. “Like what? I'm guessing you don't mean eating and drinking, because that still involves 'buying things.'”

Methos nodded. “Some acquisitions don't require money.”

“You wanna get to the point, Old Man? Just because _we're_ not getting old, that doesn't mean the joke hasn't.”

Methos glared at him, and held it until Richie started fidgeting, started actively resisting the urge to turn around and check behind him. “Were you always this impatient with MacLeod?”

“All the time,” Richie answered immediately, shifting again so that he was least not positioned to bolt. It was a simple fact of how he was made: he needed to learn by doing. The more people tried to get him to listen to theory or lecture, the more impatient he got to begin the practice. “The world doesn't move at seven miles an hour anymore,” he pointed out. “And I've never been happy going the speed limit anyway.” There was a reason he kept returning to bike racing. He'd always thought that when he got a little money saved up— _if_ he ever got a little money saved up—he'd give car racing a shot. It wasn't enough to keep up; he wanted to be out in front.

Methos sighed again and took another sip of his coffee. His grimace was only marginally less pained this time. “The speed of progress,” he commented. “Gets faster every year, and its children still aren't satisfied. Fine, I'm talking about people watching.”

Reflexively, Richie peered at the stream of people crossing between him and the kiosk. He saw a lot more white faces than he'd become used to in the city, a variety of ages, couples and families. “What about it?”

“The last time I lived in this country, it was the 19th century. It's changed a lot.”

“Yeah, there's a couple more states,” Richie agreed. “I don't get the problem. You've visited plenty of times. Sometimes for weeks. And it's not like Europe is all that different. If you need a line on a place to get a new ID....”

Methos' eyes dropped closed and he rolled his lips together in a clear bid for patience. When he spoke again, his voice was tired; he dropped his gaze square on Richie, and for the first time ever Richie caught a glimpse of the immense age behind the hazel eyes. “Has it occurred to you that _nothing_ you take for granted in your life is native to me? Not the food, not the language, not even the positions of the stars in the night sky. I've learned to adapt, yes. I've learned to blend in, yes.” He stopped, cut his eyes down to the bench. “I haven't learned to _be_. This isn't my world, and that's never more obvious than when I need to change identities.”

This was the most open and honest Richie had ever seen Methos. He understood the '5000 years' part as a number, but he realized that he'd never given any thought to what it meant as an age. 

Abruptly, he flashed back to the tumultuous first weeks after he moved in with Mac and Tessa. He'd lived in dozens of homes in his life, and had learned first hand that the rules he heard when informed of the new family's expectations were never going to be the ones he got in trouble for breaking. It was always the other ones, the ones no one knew were rules, that were simply assumptions about the correct and 'natural' way to act. Mac and Tessa had been no different.

The bravado he'd learned while in the system became his only shield while he struggled to deal with the fact that everything he thought he knew about how people acted around each other no longer applied: from the correct way to deal with his wet towel, to the order in which dishes were washed, to the way to spend his free time. And that didn't even get into the landmines of table manners, conversational etiquette, and what to do when his friends came over. He had never felt so out-of-sync with _everything_. To think, that was Methos' normal. “Geez, I'm sorry, man.” Though he'd never admit it, he felt a little bad for not being more forgiving. Only a little.

“Don't be. You live long enough, you'll get to experience it, too.”

“Oh, good. Something else to look forward to.”

Methos' lips twitched into something that might become a grin with a little more encouragement. “Since I plan to stick around awhile, I need more than a new driver's license. I need to know who the picture is going to be of.” He scowled at the coffee cup. “All I've figured out for certain is that my new self still isn't going to be a whipped cream-and-sprinkles kind of guy.”

“So, some things really don't change with time,” Richie commented. With new perspective, he again turned his attention to the other shoppers. He saw hair that was long, short, curly, straight, and all of the above; piercings, tattoos, henna, and unadorned skin; clothes that hugged the body and clothes that hid it. He saw people who were comfortable in their skin, and people who obviously weren't. 

Not since high school was he so aware of how people categorized themselves, advertised their interests, and announced their ethnic and social memberships by their adornment. Mentally, he started testing some of the styles against his own look. Who could he become, if he could be anybody? He'd left the name Richie Ryan briefly to become Bill Powell, Richard Redstone, and now Richie Jensen. But, no matter his name, he'd always stayed Richie Ryan inside. The mere idea that he could— _should_ —change everything was daunting. “You know, Mac never mentioned any of this.”

Methos huffed out a laugh. “Duncan I-Am-Who-I-Am MacLeod? The man who refuses to change his name, no matter who's hunting for his head? This is why you need a teacher, Rich. MacLeod taught you how to play the Game. He didn't teach you how to live.”

Emily walked past, then. For a second, Richie feared that she was going to break from the traffic and come over to talk to him again. He really didn't need Methos to _meet_ her, because he knew that would only lead to trouble. Instead, she raised her hand in a wave, then turned to speak to the woman walking next to her. The woman was stunning: brown hair cropped short and styled to highlight the angles of her face; tailored jeans and a button-down shirt on a body that was rounder yet still fit; and more mature versions of the long nose and wide mouth that Emily shared. This had to be her mother.

“Oh, so that's the issue, is it?” Methos commented.

“What?” Richie snapped. With effort, he tore his gaze away from the women.

Continuing as if Richie hadn't spoken, Methos said, “Well, it certainly explains Kristin.”

Richie's eyes narrowed, and he felt the moment of camaraderie between them disintegrating. “Not this again. Kristin was twenty years ago. I made a mistake. It's over. She's dead. Time to move—” Richie stiffened then as the feeling of another Immortal impinged on him. A scan of the space in front of him again revealed no likely candidate, so he swept his eyes upward. There, on the second floor. He caught only a glimpse of the man as he stepped back from the guardrail, yet instinctively knew he'd found the source.

“Who?” Methos asked, his gaze following Richie's. “Where?”

Richie nodded toward the retreating figure, now just another brown-haired man among many.

“You're sure?”

“You're not?” Richie countered. Only as he caught the curious curl of the man's brow did he realize that Methos hadn't responded to the Presence at all. How was the possible? He was sitting two feet away.

“Well, doesn't that make things interesting. Come on.” He stood up, carried his still mostly-full coffee cup to the nearest garbage can, and dropped it in.

Richie scrambled to gather his bags in one hand without spilling his smoothie all over his new purchases. “Hey! You wanna actually finish a sentence?”

To his surprise, Methos not only waited for him to catch up, but relieved him of half the bags when he did. “I underestimated you, Richie. When I came to New York, I thought you'd be nothing more than a way to occupy myself for a few years while things cooled off in Europe.”

Richie rolled his eyes; he'd figured that out the second Methos showed up on his doorstep. They'd never been friends, exactly—at best their relationship could be described as 'neutral'—but, as far as Immortals went, they trusted each other. Richie knew who Methos was and wasn't interested in his head. Methos wasn't interested in heads at all. “Yeah?” he asked, signing a rolling barrel when it looked like Methos was going to leave another thought half finished.

“First, we need to deal with the fact that your 'type' is, apparently, what this generation has appallingly decided to label, 'cougars.'”

So much for the compliment that it had sounded like Methos was headed for. “It is not! How many times do I have to say it? Kristin was a special case. You can't tell me that you've never fallen for the wrong person.”

“More than a few,” Methos commented, sounding not at all disturbed by that fact. “We all have our weaknesses.”

“Besides,” Richie continued, “I've dated plenty of women my age.”

“Say it again.”

“That I've dated plenty of women?” Richie asked. Why was that in need of repeating? His propensity for short-term flings has gotten him into a lot of trouble when he was younger, including that time when Donna showed up with the toddler she said was his. That had led to a lot of hard lessons.

Methos shook his head. “The other part.”

Richie thought back through what he'd said and frowned. He was definitely missing something that Methos had decided was important. He shifted his grip on the bags so that the handles would find a different part of his hand to cut into. He'd had to buy way more than the average guy, as most of his t-shirts and sweats would get destroyed in training. Swords were sharp, and Immortals trained the same way they'd fight for real: in street clothes, and to kill.

And the more he had to carry, the more he appreciated the effort Methos had gone through to secure a car. But. This was the most time the two of them had ever spent together, was easily more words exchanged in one setting than in all their previous interactions combined, and the cryptic guru shit was really starting to piss Richie off.

His annoyance must have come through, because Methos groaned his own frustration. “Your age, Richie. You've dated plenty of women _your age_.” Using the weight of the bag he carried, Methos herded Richie back down the secondary branch they’d come up.

“Ow,” Richie yelped, as a sharp corner in the bag hit him in the back of the thigh. “You mind?”

“You'll heal,” Methos answered. “Stop.” They'd reached the window of a store that had gone out of business. Against the darkened interior, the plate glass window functioned like a mirror. Methos positioned Richie in front of it “This is the toughest lesson for young Immortals: _That's_ your age. Not the number of years you've been alive, the age that people see when they look at you.”

Richie bristled. He'd never liked being called a kid, and at a fundamental level it hurt that he rarely got a chance to be seen as anything else.

“Wanting to be with people who are the same as you are inside is understandable, but you've only about sixty years before that clock runs out. The sooner you start living _with_ this face instead of _despite_ it, the easier your life will be.”

The image in the window was translucent. Through it, Richie saw the empty shelves in the store, and a flattened box and some wire hangers that had been left behind. With effort, he forced himself to actually look at his reflection. Wide blue eyes. A straight nose. Reddish-blond curls that were now long enough to require a comb in the morning. There was always a moment of shock when he saw just how young he was. He knew mortals his age had the opposite experience, where graying hair and crow's feet greeted a person who felt younger inside. He'd never have that. And, fortunately, he hadn't been cursed with acne-prone skin or eternal baby fat in his cheeks. It could be worse. He could be Kenny, stuck forever in a ten year old's body.

“Nineteen, huh?” he said. It never got easier to say. He wondered if it ever would.

“For what it's worth, what nineteen _means_ will change, given enough time. It's viewed as young right now. That may not be true in a few hundred years.”

“That's not as comforting as you might think it is,” Richie responded. The way things were going, nineteen could become indistinguishable from ten.

“Then, how about this: You still have that young lady's information?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You're going out tonight. Remember that club those other girls mentioned?”

“I already told you—”

“Doctor's orders,” Methos interrupted. “Teacher's orders, too.”

Richie wasn't about to give in that easily. “What about you? What are you going to do?” He stuck the straw in his mouth and took a sip, only to be met with a mouthful of air and a loud slurping as the straw pulled in vain at the few drops of liquid in the bottom of the cup. So much for enjoying the drink; he barely remembered drinking it. He headed toward the garbage and Methos fell into step next to him, the fingers of his free hand shoved into his front pocket.

“I'll go with you, find a table in some out-of-the-way corner, have a few drinks, and see if I can figure out what the kids these days call 'dancing'.”

Except for the 'kids these days' part, the rest sounded so typically Methos that Richie felt a moment of embarrassment that he'd wasted the breath asking. His next question took that moment and dragged it out. Keeping his gaze locked straight ahead, he asked, “What if she wants to go back to her place?”

They'd re-entered the main concourse, finally heading back toward the parking garage, and Methos had once again taken over the lead. Distantly, Richie was aware of a change in the ambient noise, a shift in the pitch of the conversations that seemed to end in a question mark. It didn't ping any of his 'danger' signals, so he ignored it.

“Then go,” Methos answered, and laughed when Richie shot him a disbelieving look. “I know how hotels work. I won't have to worry about being able to drive home, then.”

“But—”

“We're in a mall, Rich. If you're that concerned about having clean underwear or a toothbrush in the morning, we can stop and buy some. You have enough new clothes to last at least a month, more if you take time between tumbles to do laundry.” He hefted the bag he has holding in demonstration of his point. “Don't worry about me.”

Richie's jaw tightened at having all his objections dismissed so casually. “You really don't have a problem with that?”

“As I am neither your father, spouse, or in any manner your moral guardian, what difference would it make if I did?”

Mac would have had a problem. Mac wouldn't have stopped Richie from making the decision, but he'd have let him know before, during, and after how disappointed he was in Richie for making it. Except, Methos wasn't Mac, and Richie needed to remember that. It was almost disturbing how he had simply assumed that Methos would play all the roles Mac had.

“Sorry,” Richie said, “I guess I wasn't thinking.”

“You were being considerate,” Methos replied, as if that's all it had been.

The idea that Methos wasn't going to hold Richie's slip against him was so strange that Richie found it difficult to wrap his mind around it. It didn't help that so much of Methos' behavior was hard to wrap his mind around, if he thought about it for more than two seconds. And he'd had more than two seconds.

“Why does it matter to you what I do?” Richie asked suddenly, though not for the first time that day. “I mean, at all. Why care about teaching me? I know it's not because we're such great friends that my success or failure in the Game is personally important.”

Methos didn't dispute Richie's assessment.

“So, I'm thinking Mac asked you to check in on me. Except—” He held up a finger, cutting off a protest he saw forming on Methos' lips— “I don't think you'd do it if he just _asked_. Which leads me to think that you're either here because he's mad at you and you're trying to get back on his good side, or you owe him a favor and he cashed it in.” Why Mac would suddenly decide that Richie needed more training was a different problem, as was why he'd go about giving it this way. Not a phone call, not a letter, not even an email letting him know what was going on. The best Richie would come up with was that Mac was losing his mind. Again.

Methos' eyes narrowed and he swept Richie with a searching look. “Duncan has nothing to do with my being here,” he countered, his tone low. He sounded offended at the accusation.

If he hadn't spent the day trying to decipher Methos' behavior, Richie might have taken that statement at face value. But it was too easy, information given without argument. That meant it couldn't be trusted. Richie turned the exchange over in his head, searching for the catch. And he found it. He'd been talking about Mac, and Methos denied Duncan's involvement, but they both knew more than one MacLeod. “Connor?!” Methos flinched, and Richie knew he'd guessed correctly. “ _Connor_ sent you to teach me?” That was almost more disturbing than Duncan doing so. “You owed _Connor MacLeod_ a favor?!”

“Keep your voice down,” Methos reprimanded.

Richie drew a breath and furiously tried to work through what the new detail meant. He'd met Connor on a mere handful of occasions, none of them good: that first night in Tessa's shop when Richie learned about the world of Immortals, a year later at Tessa's funeral, a couple years after that when he'd been on the run after Duncan's Dark Quickening, and a few years after that at Connor's daughter's funeral. The man had definitely known about him and had many opportunities to intervene in Richie's training, if he'd wanted to. Except he'd never wanted to. He'd inquired about Richie when he called, and was cordial enough when they met, yet had done little to stay in contact after Richie finally left Duncan's orbit. “Why does Connor suddenly care about me?”

“Why wouldn't he?” Methos countered. “You're basically his grandson.”

“His gr—” Richie bit the word off, because the intent was right, even if the language wasn't. Since Immortals couldn't have kids, their most important lineages were that of student-teacher. Richie's teacher's teacher would be, well, like a grandfather. He'd never thought of it that way, and now he understood why Connor had shown any interest at all. Really, it was about as functional as an Immortal relationship ever was. Was him sending Methos to train him the equivalent of a regular grandfather springing for a year's college tuition? He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling vertebrae pop under the pressure. “All right, so you needed a place to go, and rather than taking off for anywhere else in the big, wide world that you could hide, Connor told you to come train me. Musta been one hell of a favor.”

“ _That's_ none of your business.”

“Of course not,” Richie grumbled. “ _My_ personal life is all your business, and yours is only yours.”

“You're catching on.” Methos paused, his attention momentarily drawn to the custodians who were pulling metal folding chairs off a rolling rack and setting them up around the stage with practiced efficiency. Potential audience members were starting to drift into position, taking up seats as soon as there was one to claim. Meanwhile, a woman with dark hair swept into an updo and a fitted brown suit that suggested that she was part of the show moved around, coordinating the last few steps. “You moved to New York City.”

Richie drew to a stop at the observation, sensing that they were finally getting to the heart of the matter. “What about it?”

“That was Connor's territory for thirty years, and you know how he is about letting go of things that are meaningful to him.”

Connor MacLeod: the man who still lit a candle every year in honor of his first wife, and who always would.

Richie swallowed hard. He hadn't thought about that when he'd picked the city to live in. Mostly, he'd been searching for a place as far from Seacouver as he could get while staying in the States. Connor's reputation meant that Immortals steered clear of the city—all five boroughs of it, plus any adjacent suburbs—unless they committed to avoiding the Game. “You're saying he sent you to kill me.”

Methos cringed. “He wouldn't need me for that. If he wanted you dead, he'd do it himself.” Forcing a breath out of his nose, he added, “I'm pretty sure he's intends for you to hold the fort, so to speak, until it's safe for him to come back. Grandson.”

Shit. An inheritance. Even if he'd still lived there, Connor wouldn't have stopped Richie from moving in because Richie was family. Other Immortals would have still stayed away, and Richie probably wouldn't have noticed the difference. Any excuse for a lull in the Game was a good one. 

Now that Connor was gone, others would see open season in the city, and Richie had just been tasked with defending it. He could almost hear Connor's signature staccato laugh at what he probably thought was a clever solution to an age-old problem: how to keep pockets of peace in their violent lives. And, while Richie was a strong fighter, he was no substitute for the elder Highlander. Connor had to have known that.

Methos was waiting for Richie to put the pieces together, his shoulders thrown back and his lips pressed into white lines. All at once, Richie got it, and a flare of anger ignited deep inside. Like a capricious god, Connor had assigned Richie an impossible task for his own amusement. Dropping his bags, he brought his arm around in a punch that hit Methos square in the jaw. Bone cracked. “You bastard,” Richie swore. He stepped back, breath coming harder. The one punch hadn't been enough; he reached for his sword, and found only the cotton blend of his button-down shirt.

Methos grabbed his jaw, turning away from further assault while it healed. “I'm not the one you're angry with,” he ground out in a voice that was muffled through teeth he couldn't move and the hand that covered his face.

The pain of the first hit receded quickly, and Richie pulled back for another. “You agreed to this,” he said, landing an upper-cut to Methos' stomach that forced the man to double over. “You set me up.” At least three people had known what Richie was getting into when he moved to the City, and none of them had bothered to warn him. No, instead they sent him a “teacher” who was more interested in getting Richie to score a date than in providing him with life-or-death information.

A crowd was starting to gather around them, the area resounding with the thumps and scraps of quickly abandoned chairs as the fight captured people's attention.

Methos wasn't fighting back nor trying to stop Richie. At some level, Richie understood that this was the man's way of making up for Connor's overstep. “That's the problem with favors, kid,” he gasped.

“Hey!” someone shouted.

Richie spun, fists coming up as his attention widened to take in this new threat, and caught himself staring open-mouthed at the interrupter: the brunette who'd been organizing the show. She was gorgeous, made-up and coiffed, confident, in her element. And a person he'd have recognized anywhere, even if he hadn't seen her grow up on billboards and in TV ads. “Maria?” he said, only in the next breath remembering that he couldn't know her anymore. He hadn't seen her since he was twenty-four, right before he left Seacouver for the last time.

He assumed he'd never see her again. Just like he assumed he'd never see Angie or Joey or Donna, or any of the dozens of other people he'd grown up with, again. Most of them were never going to get out of the city, nor had they ever expected to. Maria had been one of the lucky ones, as had he—though for entirely different reasons.

“Richie?” she responded. She took a step closer, the security guard behind her shuffling nervously. “Richie Ryan?”

“Oops,” Methos commented.


	3. Chapter 3

As Richie recognized his gaff, he scrambled for a cover. His fists dropped, the adrenaline that'd powered the physicality now freezing him. This was bad. This was really, really bad. He needed an excuse, an exit strategy that was more than 'turn and run away,' because he knew he wouldn't get far with all the people in the way. It was too late to pretend that he wasn't who she thought he was. He couldn't play the “I'm my own kid” card that was Mac's standard excuse when people questioned how the Duncan MacLeod they'd known thirty years before looked so much like the one standing in front of them; Maria knew that he hadn't had any kids when he was twenty. And he certainly couldn't claim to merely have good skin or a fortunate hairline; no forty year old man could pass for half his age without a great deal of theatrical help. With no ready excuses, he had nothing at all to say.

Maria recovered her aplomb before he did. Flinging up her arms, she spoke to the gathered crowd, “Fight's over. The real show will start in about ten minutes. Please take your seats.” It was a tone used to giving orders and having them followed; after only a moment's hesitation, the audience began to comply.

“Ma'am?” the security guard asked. He was a big guy, a lot of muscle that had mostly gone to weight, with sagging features, yet his gaze was set hard, the expression of a man who took his job seriously and would not permit disturbances on his watch.

“It's OK, Don,” Maria answered. “I know him. He won't cause any more trouble. Right?” She nailed Richie with a look that he'd never been able to withstand.

Richie nodded dumbly, agreeing with her, but still locked in the whirl of thoughts. Oh, god. Here he was: an Immortal who was trained to kill, who was experienced in killing, and he was still helpless against his little sister.

“Hello,” Methos said, stepping up. “Maria, right? Richie and I were just clearing the air. I believe we've done that now....” He trailed off because Maria wasn't paying him the least bit of attention. Her eyes were fixed on Richie, and one hand was half-raised as if she'd started to reach out to touch him, and was only just managing to keep her impulse in check. Turning to the guard, Methos continued, “We're really OK here. See? No harm.” He motioned to his cheek, now completely healed. “Do you think you could get Maria some water?”

Though reluctant to leave her side, the guard had only to see the pallor that had spread across his charge's face for him to understand the wisdom of the request. He eyed up Richie and Methos for a long moment, and Methos gave him his best innocent smile, which was enough to get him to hurry off to fulfill a concrete task.

“Good,” Methos said, as soon as the guard was gone. “Now, to answer your questions: Yes, he is. No, he hasn't. And now’s not the time to talk about it.”

Finally realizing that someone was speaking to her, Maria slowly pivoted toward the voice, then stopped, head tilted. “Excuse me, have we met? You look familiar.”

“It was a long time ago,” Methos agreed. “You'd have no reason to remember.” He stuck his hand out. “Adam Pierson.”

Maria accepted the hand and gave it a quick, polite pump.

“A-Adam?” Richie asked, his fog of surprise dissipating at hearing a name and an accent that he hadn't heard in years. “Maria?” Burying his head in his hands, he whispered, “Fuck.” How was he supposed to get himself out of this one?

The guard reappeared then with a bottle of water and a new sense of purpose. “I'm going to need you two to come with me.” He gestured for Richie and Methos to fall in line with him.

“I said it's OK, Don,” Maria snapped. “No one was hurt and Adam here doesn't seem to be interested in filing a complaint.” She raised an eyebrow at Methos, who shook his head in verification.

“We should be going anyway,” Methos countered. “Richie has a date he needs to get ready for. So, if you don't mind, we'll take our purchases and leave, and you can avoid doing a mountain of tedious paperwork.”

Don gave the offer serious thought, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his pants where they probably spent a great deal of their day. With a sharp nod, he settled his inner debate. “I’m gonna escort you outa the building, and I'd better not see you ‘round here again anytime soon.”

“No problem,” Richie replied, grateful that this bit of trouble, at least, didn't appear to be escalating. He could only too-well imagine the unpleasant hours that would've followed otherwise, dealing with the mall security and, likely, the police, if anyone decided to make an issue out of him clocking Methos.

The banks of lights turned on with a thunk that managed to pull everyone's attention to the stage.

“That's my signal,” Maria stated. She didn't move. Music started up, and Don scratched his head as if trying to figure out if it was too soon to bodily pick her up and haul her to the stage.

On impulse, Richie pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Tucked in with driver's licenses and debit card was a business card. He'd had a couple dozen made as part of a freebie offer, for no reason except to have something else with his new name on it. Its corners were crumpled and a crease marred the plain white card stock, but he handed it over. “The number works,” he said. “You can call anytime.”

He was going to regret this; he knew he was. She'd call, they'd have a nostalgia-filled conversation about their childhoods, and then he'd either have to tell her the truth or start lying to her, and neither were good options: not with a person who now qualified as his oldest friend, but then his mouth was opening and he was saying more things that should have stayed locked in his head. “I'd really like to keep in touch. It's been...too long.”

Maria nodded. “I will.” She read the card, then brought her eyes back to Richie's in silent question at the name in print that wasn't the one she knew.

He could only give her a wan smile. “Some things did change,” he answered. Not his looks, not his apparent age, not his inability to avoid trouble. Just his name. And, with it, the history of the person that name belonged to—a history that, up until this moment, hadn't included his former foster sister.

Maria regarded the card a moment longer, then tucked it into an inner pocket of her blazer. “Oh, Richie.” The sadness in that utterance took him back to the day he got the news that he was being transferred from the Alcobar home to another foster home. For once, it hadn't been any fault of his; the Alcobars' were needed for a pair of younger kids, biological siblings, whom the system was trying to keep together, and shuffling Richie to a new home opened up the requisite number of beds. Like then, Richie caught the wetness glimmering in Maria's eyes, a stinging in his own held back with only a hard blink. Then she launched herself across the space between them and threw her arms around him. “Don't lose touch again,” she said into his ear.

Richie's resistance collapsed immediately, and he hugged Maria back. “Don't tell anyone you saw me,” he responded. “It's important.” Against his head, he felt her agreement. He hoped she'd listen, as he really didn't want her to learn that hard way that everyone back in Seacouver thought he was dead. Somehow no one had passed the word on to her, and Richie had never been more grateful for an oversight of that magnitude.

At last, he pulled away and began, once again, gathering his bags. “Good luck with your show,” he said, then with a grin meant to end the encounter on a good note he added, “I always knew you'd end up in charge.”

Maria chuckled, planted a peck on his cheek, and, with a departing wave at Methos, turned back to her stage.

“Time to go.” Don made pushing motions with his hands. “Let's get a move on.”

“I hope you were done shopping,” Methos commented. There wasn't much else he could say with the security guard following them as they were hustled toward the main exit. Their passage drew only a few stares that were quickly averted.

“Not quite,” Richie answered. “I still need to pick up a lighter-weight jacket. Can't keep wearing the winter one now that it's warming up outside.”

“Ah, well there's plenty of other stores for that. I'm pretty sure I can get the name of Connor's tailor, if you're interested.”

Now that was a gift from Connor that Richie could appreciate. “You bet,” he said. It hadn't even occurred to him to delve into the mortal resources Connor would have left behind. He probably couldn't afford to make use of most of them, but correctly tailored coats and jackets were priceless to Immortals.

Don walked them into the parking garage and once more reminded them that they weren't welcome back to the mall “anytime soon”—whatever that meant for him.

Stepping into the dim, hot parking garage after the bright, cold of the mall was a shock. Sweat broke out instantly on Richie's forehead. If this heat is what he could expect for the next few months, someone really needed to teach him how to hide his sword in a muscle shirt. He thought about asking, then decided he had more important inquiries still.

“Adam Pierson?” he asked, pausing right after the metal detectors to wait for his eyes to adjust. In the sudden lighting change, his companion appeared as only a dark form, another pillar. Slowly he took on detail again, resolving back into the thirty-something man with short hair and clothes that never quite fit who walked in the world. “Never thought I'd hear that name again.”

Methos shrugged. “I didn't know how much she'd remember. That name was in the police report and on the hospital records.”

“You visited her in the hospital?” Richie asked in surprise. He'd arrived at Kristin's just as the first police car had, long after Kristin had been killed, and had turned around and gone straight to the hospital. The whole way he'd ridden with teeth clenched tight, dread growing about what he was going to learn when he got there.

“Someone had to debrief her,” Methos commented. “It turned out that she didn't see anything that couldn't be chalked up to hallucinations caused by the poison.”

Pragmatic, as always. Richie grumbled at his hope that Methos might've had reasons otherwise.

Scratch that. Methos definitely had reasons otherwise; he simply wasn't going to share them with Richie. Oddly enough, Richie was fine with that, since all that mattered was the result.

Their steps echoed off the cement walls, an unsyncopated beat under their conversation. Exhaust fumes tainted the air, encouraging Richie to pick up his pace. “Yeah, well we can't say the same anymore,” Richie pointed out. “She definitely knows something's up now.”

Richie felt his heel come down in the puddle of something he hoped was only a spilled drink. He was checking that nothing had splashed up onto his clothes when Methos spoke again, so quietly he almost missed it.

“She wasn't supposed to see you.”

“What?”

Methos' eyes dipped shut and he let out a long sigh. “Look, I know you think I'm some kind of master manipulator, ancient guy with the strings of the universe wrapped around his fingers.” He cut off Richie's reflexive protest with another short sigh. “The faster you get it through your head that I'm not, the easier our relationship will be. I bolloxed this one up and I'm sorry.”

Nothing had splashed. Now Richie just had to be more careful about where he put his feet. “All right, so that's something I never thought I'd hear you say.”

“I say it when I mean it.”

Reaching the car. Richie popped the trunk and pulled the swords out, propping them against the car's bumper while he loaded the bags. They quickly filled the space, proving that he'd benefited from Methos' foresight more than once, at multiple levels. The swords went back in last, within easy reach should the situation call for it. For a long moment, his hand hovered over his own sword and he thought about bringing it into the car. No, he decided; that was not the person he wanted to be. Only after he closed the lid did Methos resume speaking.

“Most Immortals don't make it more than a few decades. The average is about thirty years, in fact. Did you know that?”

“Changing the topic?” Richie countered.

“Not as much as you'd think. Thirty years, Rich. That's not even a mortal lifespan.”

“Because of the Game,” Richie supplied. No surprise there. The Game was brutal. New Immortals didn't stand much chance against those with hundreds of years of experience. Mostly all that saved them was luck: a good teacher, fights that went their way, a chance to study and learn without being Challenged.

Methos shook his head. “No. Yes, but no. The Game isn't what kills them. The Game is how they choose to die.”

Richie rubbed his head, feeling a headache coming on at trying to follow whatever this convoluted logic was. “What's the difference? Head comes off, and it doesn't matter anymore.”

“It matters because you're right in the pocket. You've shown that you can survive in the Game, and considering what, and who, you've gone up against, that's saying a lot. Connor wasn't worried about your ability to fight; he was worried about your ability to live. The Game is less of a threat to you right now than your Immortality.”

Richie barely felt the leather beneath him or heard the mirrored sounds of Methos climbing in on his side. Again, the pieces had all been laid out for him, and now it was on him to put them together. He idly saw the change in shadows on the wall as the car backed out of the spot. “You think I'm going to blow my next Challenge because...I'm lonely?” he asked slowly, incredulously. “That's stupid. I have friends. I have a job.”

“But you don't have a future,” Methos replied. “At least, you don't think you do. You're still trying to fit your life into the path you imagined when you were mortal—”

Richie barked out a laugh. “When I was mortal, I expected to be dead _long_ before reaching forty.” It was the truth, but it was also an attempt to lighten the gravity of what Methos was saying. He sobered immediately, though, as what Methos had been telling him all day started to sink in. He had been killed long before forty. That he'd been fatally wounded at nineteen was the whole point. “So that's why you insisted we come out here. You knew she'd be here, and you brought me to see her because we were the same age once. And now...we're not.”

Methos nodded. He didn't need to spell out the trap that Richie saw so clearly he'd fallen into; each time he started over became harder because it felt like he was starting from further behind and having to fight harder to catch up. It never worked. A couple more resets, and he could reach a point where he stop fighting, with or without a sword in hand.

Reaching the conclusion Methos wanted him to was easy; believing it wasn’t.

“Why does it matter how old our bodies look?” Richie protested. “We went to junior high together. We know the same music, watched the same TV shows, hung out with the same people. Isn't that the stuff that should matter?" He thought about the girl in the coffee line, Emily, and how she'd laughed about finals coming up. Richie had never been to college, had never wanted to go to college. Not that he had a problem with people who did, it was just... her world was so different from one he'd ever lived in. "I mean, I don’t have anything like that in common with Emily. She was barely talking when 9/11 happened!”

“Somehow, I don’t think 9/11 will be at the top of either conversational list,” Methos countered. "You'll pick up on the pop culture details fast enough. The rest isn't as important as you think it is." His concentration switched to navigating the car out of the garage without hitting or breaking anything in the narrow confines. When they finally pulled out, both of them blinking against the sudden onslaught of daylight, he continued, “As far as Maria goes, I suggest only answering her basic questions.”

“Greaaaaat,” Richie drawled. “Perfect. What happens when she asks the wrong question? Wait. I know this one. You’re going to tell me to make sure she doesn’t.” He dropped his head back against the seat with a groan. “So I tell her things. Then what?”

“Then keep her close. As you said, she knew you when you were a child. For one of us, having someone like that is a rare gift. She can help you remember who you were while you're trying to figure out who you're going to be.”

As much as he knew what the answer would be, Richie couldn't resist asking, “Speaking from experience?”

Methos made a show of checking the mirrors, either trying to come up with a lie that sounded like the truth or a phrasing of the truth that sounded like a lie. “Yes," he finally admitted, "but not mine.” He sounded not sad, exactly. Wistful. He sounded wistful, and Richie wondered at what could inspire that tone five thousand years after everyone Methos had grown up with would have died.

To take his attention off the past, Richie changed the subject. “What about you? Have you figured out who you're going to be this time?”

Taking his eyes off the road long enough that Richie sent out a silent thanks that they were both Immortal, Methos again peered in the rear-view mirror. “I've a few ideas,” he answered, stroking his chin.

Richie had a horrifying vision of how Methos had watched the bearded men at the caricature booth. “Oh god. Please tell me you aren't planning to grow a full beard? I thought you hated the whole 'mystical guru' image.”

“Beards are in style right now.” Methos smiled. From this close, Richie saw the creases around Methos' mouth and across his brow deepen along old, old lines, and he shivered.

“You know what? Do whatever you want. Just don't expect me to take you seriously.” Richie squinted at the face in question, not ready to be done having the final word. “I don't even think you can grow a full beard.”

“I can. It's not my favorite look, and I’ve done my best to avoid it without good reason for choosing otherwise.” He gave his chin one last rub before returning both hands to the steering wheel where they belonged. “Remind me to teach you how to use your sword for shaving.”

Richie's mouth dropped open. His sword? Methos wanted him to voluntarily put his sword that close to his own neck? “You're kidding, right? You have to be kidding.” The sun glinted off Methos' eyes in a way that had to be a twinkle. “I don't think so. If I hafta choose between that and shaving with my sword, I'll risk being mistaken for a wild hermit.” He shook his head slowly at both the image and the reason for it. Was Methos serious? A side-glance at the man revealed only that infuriating smile hovering around his lips again. If he was going to have to put up with for the next couple years, he needed to learn to give as good as he got.

"Goatees, now. I might give one of those a try, just for a different look."

"Whatever," Richie responded, refusing to take the bait. He wasn't really listening anymore, anyway; facial hair as a topic only had so much novelty, no matter what Methos might threaten. Pressing his head against the glass, Richie stared out the side window for a long time, watching the flow of traffic without really seeing any of the cars in it. He'd thought today was only going to be a shopping trip, a chance to rebuild his wardrobe—and now he was looking at rebuilding his whole life. Picking a new name, getting new ID, and moving to a new town had turned out to be the easy part. Was he ready to tackle the relationships he'd been offered? He could handle things not working out with Emily; he'd just met her and barely knew her. In his experience, romantic relationships burned bright and briefly. Maria was different. If she came back into his life only for him to scare her away, he’d never forgive himself.

Methos had navigated the car out of the mall's property and onto the main road without any discussion about which way to go. Soon they were passing a crumbling hunk of a building that stood sentry at the edge of town. Richie spotted it and twisted around in his seat in confusion. "We're going home?" he asked. “I thought we were going to the nightclub?” Not that he was unhappy about missing a forced evening out. A few years ago, he'd have insisted on hitting the club, simply because it was one he hadn't been to before. Now he'd only be going because someone made him. It was funny how something like that could shift without him noticing. These were the kinds of details he'd have to start paying attention to so he could figure out what to put back.

"Change of plans," Methos answered. "The best thing I can teach you is how to adapt. The second best is the value of strategic retreat." Without using the indicator, he changed lanes and merged onto the on ramp. "Besides, I think you're going to want some privacy for the phone call you'll be getting tonight."

Richie squeezed his eyes shut. The phone call. Right. Maria would call him as soon as she could after her show, which meant he had, at best, only a few hours to figure out what to tell her. And he was going to have to stay sober during them. No wonder they were avoiding the nightclub. "Uh-uh, man," Richie said. "I mean, that's great that you're letting me off the hook with Emily tonight, but you got me into this with Maria, so you're going to be right there to back me up with whatever I tell her."

"Or what?"

Now here was a place where Richie felt like he had the upper hand. "Or I give Connor a call. I haven't talked to him in awhile, and I'm sure he'd like to know how you're settling in." He crossed his arms with a mental _so there_. Besides, if he had to stay sober, so did Methos. It was the least he could do.

"Careful, kid." Methos responded. "You don't know who you're dealing with here." Though his tone was stern, Richie got the impression that Methos was trying not to laugh. Good. Maybe Richie could successfully push back.

Settling back into the seat, he let his arms drop. He'd finally won one against Methos. Letting him stick around might turn out to be fun. Certainly it was going to be a revelation. "Neither do you," he pointed out. "We were interrupted before I could finish shopping. Seems to me that your new student could turn out to be a different man than you think he is."

The sussurating of wheels on the road and the rumble of the engine filled the car, the only noises, while Methos gave the statement due consideration. At last he replied with a simple, amusement free: "Then I'm looking forward to meeting him." Changing lanes again, he flattened the accelerator.

Richie watched the passing mile markers count down the distance until he had to make some decisions to live with. All he knew was that no matter where the road was headed, he was going to be on it for the long-haul. "So am I," he said. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading this story. As always, questions, comments, concrit, and squee are all welcome.
> 
> Out of curiosity, and without any pressure, perhaps you'd be willing to share your favorite line? I've been working on this story for so long that it's lost all insight and humor. I'd love to hear what, if any, you saw.


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